


With the Mark Comes a Great Burden

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3868327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five unrelated speculations/scenarios inspired by Dean’s struggle with the Mark of Cain in season 10.</p><p>(I’m not a fan of the 'Book of the Damned' storyline at all, so I’ve simply decided to completely ignore it. Therefore, you won’t find the book mentioned in any of the following stories.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, all audiences.

The kids in preschool have worn Dean out today, buzzing with energy like bees on speed, giddy with all the excitement leading up to the end of the year program. But they were good, remembered the songs and the dance moves and the rhymes, made their parents proud, made Dean proud.

“Beer?” Sam asks, stepping out to the porch to stand beside Dean’s deckchair.

“God, yes,” Dean accepts the bottle, takes a long swallow. “I swear, Sammy, you're a mind-reader.”

Sam grins, folding into the chair next to Dean, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

“I’m glad you and Jess could make it,” Dean says after a while. “I know you guys have a lot on your plate right now, starting your own practice and all.”

“You kidding?” Jessica settles on Sam’s lap, the chair protesting a little under their weight. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world, you always come up with the most hilarious routines for your kids.”

That is most definitely true, and a fact Dean takes great pride in. “Yep, that’s me.”

“Guys, dinner’s ready!” Carmen calls out from inside the house, her invitation accompanied by the mouth-watering smell of her legendary pork roast. Not having to be told twice, Dean, Sam and Jess hurry into the dining room. Mom and Dad are already sitting at the table, whispering something and giggling as if they were sixteen and not nearing sixty.

The dinner is delicious, and when Carmen brings out Dean’s favorite pie as dessert, Dean feels like he's in Heaven.

=

In the real world, Sam has just administered another dose of the djinn venom into Dean’s vein, just above the Mark on his arm. Dean looks relaxed in his supernaturally induced sleep, smiling softly.

Sam gently brushes Dean's slightly outgrown hair out of his forehead. “Sleep well, big brother.”


	2. Won’t Let You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, all audiences.

The demon rages, spitting blood and insults and yanking at its chains until the metal is cutting into flesh even through the protective layer of bandages around its wrists. It roars and snarls, it screams when purified blood is injected into its veins, it nearly bites Sam’s hand off when the time comes for Sam to slap his bleeding palm over its mouth.

Then, finally, once Sam recites the last words of the ritual, it sags in its bonds, eyes closing and head falling to its chest, and Sam steps back, waiting. When those eyes open again, the black dissipating until only the familiar green remains, Sam allows himself to smile. “Welcome back, Dean.”

Dean tries to say something, but breaks into a coughing fit instead, so Sam rushes to offer him a bottle of (holy) water, holding it to Dean’s lips. “Thanks,” Dean croaks when the bottle is empty.

“Sure.”

They both wince, Dean in pain and Sam in sympathy, when Sam removes the cuffs and bandages to take a closer look at Dean’s torn wrists.

“Sorry,” Sam mutters as he cleans the cuts.

“It’s okay.”

Dean’s mostly slumped in the chair, letting Sam take care of him for now. It won’t last, these moments never do, but Sam enjoys it while he can. When he’s done patching Dean up, he stands up. “Ready to stretch your legs?”

Dean accepts the hand Sam’s offering, uses it to pull himself to his feet. “Yeah. Maybe shower first?”

“Right.”

Sam tries not to hover as they walk through the corridors, but it’s difficult when Dean’s steps are shaky and his balance is shot to hell, and Sam’s instincts are telling him to just pick his brother up and carry him there himself. Dean would hate that though, he’s constantly going on about being a burden as it is, and so Sam holds his caretaker urges in check. On guard and ready to step in, but acting casual. He hopes.

When they reach the showers, Dean stops in the open door, scowling at the floor. “I hate this.”

Sam’s not sure whether Dean’s talking about his momentary weakness or about his life in general, but since there’s nothing he could say to either, he stays silent. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder before stepping back, giving Dean some space. “Come upstairs when you’re ready. I’ll go make us something to eat.”

“Yeah.”

When the door closes behind Dean, Sam heads to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on for coffee, but he orders pizza instead of preparing something himself like he’d told Dean. He’s got other things to do.

He grabs the bucket and floor cloth from the closet, fills the bucket with water and goes to Dean’s room, where Dean collapsed on the floor yesterday, coughing up blood and begging Sam to kill him already. It shouldn’t have happened, not this soon, but Dean seems to last shorter as the years go by. It used to take over half a year before depriving the Mark of violence would kill Dean and now it’s been barely a month, the endless cycle of human – dead – demon – human again going faster and faster.

“You know, you could just stop bringing me back,” Dean’s voice comes from behind Sam, low and calm, reasonable. “Lock the demon up, flood the dungeon with holy water or something, bury the whole place under cement. Leave, go on with your life. Be done with this.”

Sam turns around fast enough to catch a glimpse of Dean’s almost hopeful look before it disappears behind the usual mask of _I don’t give a crap_. This is as bad for Dean as it is for Sam, but Sam’s not ready to let his brother go. “No.” He doesn’t shout, doesn’t implore, doesn't explain, knowing that Dean will understand anyway.

And sure enough, Dean smiles, a little sadness and way too much love. “Alright, Sammy. Alright.” He steps forward, holds out his hand, pulls Sam to his feet and claps him on the shoulder. “How ‘bout that food, hey? I’m starving.”


	3. There’s No Blessing in This Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincest, mention of off-screen Sam/OFC, mention of self-harm, teen and up audiences.

The lockup is a necessity, no other way to contain the Mark. The rest is largely self-imposed, since Dean maintained right from the beginning that an illusion of freedom would be worse than the days months years of solitude in the darkness and silence of his cell.

He still stands by that, even though it wears on him every now and then, becomes too much, and that’s when Dean screams, or bashes his head against the wall until the concrete is slick with blood, or bites through the veins on his wrists, life trickling out of him, slow, far too slow.

He refused to give the Mark the thrill of killing, so the Mark refuses to give him the release of death. Won’t even let him lose his mind.

Oddly enough, Dean is grateful for that. He needs to stay sane and strong, hold it together for Sam.

Because sometimes, the silence is disturbed by approaching footsteps and rattling keys, and then the door to Dean’s cell opens, light pouring in around Sam’s silhouette, and then Sam’s face is buried in Dean’s chest, Sam’s tears are on Dean’s skin, Sam’s apologies are filling Dean’s ears.

And Dean puts his arms around his brother’s thinning body, runs his fingers through Sam’s greying hair, kisses the top of his head, whispers soothing nonsense until Sam quiets down enough to be able to talk. Then Dean listens about the world he would barely recognize by now, about the sister-in-law he’s never met, about the niece and nephews he only gets to see in pictures. They make Sam happy though, so for that he loves them with all his heart.

Sam usually brings beer and burgers and pie, muttering how difficult it is these days to find a place that sells junk food, and they sit on the floor and eat and drink, and when they’re drunk they lie down and kiss and make love, and stare at the ceiling and pretend it’s the night sky.

Later, when it’s time for Sam to go, he kisses Dean deep and slow, and walks away without looking back, leaving Dean alone in the dark with his demons. But that’s okay, because he will be back again.

Dean always knew he’d end up back in Hell eventually. He just never thought it would be his Heaven too.


	4. After Sundown, Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One-sided Destiel, unrequited love, assisted suicide, teen and up audiences.
> 
> (Inspired by the sunset picture with Misha that Jensen tweeted a while back.)

The sun hangs low on the horizon, painting the lake in shades of orange and crimson, and the colors reflecting off the mirror-like surface lend the surrounding hills an otherworldly, almost magical atmosphere. It’s tranquil, not the slightest breeze rippling the water, not another living soul on the shore to disturb the calm. Castiel can see why Dean chose this place.

And yet – “It shouldn’t have to be like this.” He's choking on the bitterness of how colossally unfair this is, how fundamentally  _wrong_. He wants to scream until his throat is raw, until the sharp sound of his anger and sorrow pierces this illusion of all things good and peaceful, ripping it into pieces like it’s been done to his heart.

Next to him, Dean smiles. It’s a sad smile, a weary one, but there’s kindness in it too, warmth in his eyes. He’s beautiful, breathtakingly so, and in a moment of weakness Castiel has to avert his gaze, unable to bear the sight of what he’s about to lose.

“We’ve been over this.” Dean’s tone betrays no irritation or impatience, even though they’ve already talked about this ad nauseam. “You know there’s no other way.”

Castiel wishes he could argue, raise counterarguments, present new options. But there are none, and in the months it took him to realize and accept that, Dean has been slowly, quietly slipping away, his desperate grip on sanity, on self-control, on humor and compassion and love and all the things that made him  _Dean_  weakening dangerously. Now, he's barely hanging by fingertips, dangling above the black abyss of chaos and bloodshed.

“I truly believed that we would find a cure,” Castiel whispers, hanging his head in defeat. “That I would save you somehow.”

“No, Cas, that’s not – Hey, look at me,” Dean’s hand comes up to grip Castiel’s chin, calloused fingers forcing him to look up and into Dean’s eyes. “You  _are_  saving me, man.”

On some level, Castiel understands that, but there’s another part of him – a big, selfish part – that simply can’t see it that way. And he won’t be the only one either. “What about Sam? What am I supposed to tell him?”

The grimace that Dean makes tells Castiel the question was neither welcome nor unexpected, but he doesn’t shy away from the subject, painful as it must be. “You know damn well he’s gonna be pissed anyway. We’re doing this behind his back, he’s gonna be fucking  _livid_. And devastated. But he’s strong, smart. Eventually he’ll come around.” The curtness of his words does nothing to conceal the care underneath, not even when he adds defiantly, “At least he won’t waste the rest of his life worrying about me. In the end, it’s for the best.”

“So once again, you’re acting in the interest of your brother without giving him any say in the matter.”

Dean’s expression hardens, jaw clenching. “No. Maybe for the first time in my life, I’m acting in  _my own_  interest. And I won’t let anyone take that away from me. Not Sam, not you, not anyone. We clear on that?”

Back when Dean first brought this up, Castiel was fully determined to refuse, but once it became apparent that Dean would follow through with his plan with Castiel’s help or without it… The thought of Dean finding someone else to do it, or somehow doing it alone, was and always will be unacceptable. “Yes, we’re clear.”

They fall silent, the matter settled for good.

Minutes tick by as Dean watches the setting sun and Castiel watches Dean, his own sun, acutely aware that unlike the star that gives light to the Earth and the humans on it, Dean will never rise again, casting Castiel’s world into perpetual darkness.

“Cas, I wanna thank you,” Dean says suddenly. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

“You know, that goes both ways.”

A harsh chuckle escapes Dean; a nasty, unsettling sound. “Yeah, about that…” His eyes flit away for a second and he clears his throat, shifts his feet in the grass uncomfortably. “I, uh… I know how you feel about me, Cas. I’m sorry I couldn’t be that for you.”

It comes out of the blue, stunning Castiel like a physical blow. He had no idea he was being so obvious, he never wanted Dean to know. “Dean, you… you don’t have to apologize.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean digs the tip of his boot into the ground. “I’m still sorry. And I’m sorry for making you do this, but I can’t go on like this anymore, I just can’t.” His voice breaks, and a single tear slips down his cheek, glimmering in the waning sunlight. If he dared, Castiel would reach out to wipe that tear away, and if this were a dream, Dean would lean into the touch, let himself be loved. As it is, Castiel offers the Winchester-approved comfort of one arm slung around Dean’s broad shoulders, and feels grateful when after a moment of tenseness, Dean relaxes and returns the gesture.

They stand unmoving, saying nothing, just breathing together, and Castiel would give anything so they could stay like this forever.

He knows they can’t.

When the sun's almost sunken beneath the horizon, Dean lets go, taking a step back. “It’s time.” He walks over to the Impala, opening the trunk and taking out the supplies they will need. He pats the car’s black metal goodbye before going back to Castiel, where he lays the items down, sprays a Devil’s Trap onto the ground and kneels in the middle of the circle.

Wordlessly, he hands Castiel the demon-binding manacles and lets himself be cuffed. Only then does Castiel pull out the First Blade. Dean’s gaze is instantly drawn to the weapon, his hunger naked and unmistakable, and it’s an apparent struggle for him to tear his eyes away from it. When he finally does, it’s to remind Castiel for a thousandth time: “When the demon comes back, you can’t hesitate. You gotta kill him before he knows what hit him.”

“Yes, Dean.”

But Dean’s not done worrying yet. “Watch out for Sammy, okay? And watch out for yourself, too. Promise me, Cas.”

“I promise. You don’t have to be afraid.”

The words have the same effect on Dean as a priest’s absolution bestowed upon a sinner, peace immediately settling over his features. “I know. I’m not.”

Somehow, even after everything, Castiel still has Dean’s trust. It’s a great honor, but also a great obligation.

And so Castiel kneels behind Dean and puts his left arm around Dean’s torso to support what will soon become dead weight, while the fingers of his right hand wrap around Dean’s so that they are holding the Blade together.

When he first met Dean, it was to grip him tight and raise him from perdition. Now, even if it means losing what is dearest to him, he’s going to do the same.


	5. Our Weary Eyes Still Stray to the Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, all audiences. Set vaguely after Dean's "I’m gonna fight it till I can’t fight it anymore" speech in 10x13.

“This ain’t healthy.”

“Huh?” Sam looks up from the file he was reading, startled by Dean’s sneaky approach. He didn’t even hear him coming. “What?”

“It’s been days since you set foot outside the bunker.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sam retorts, perhaps a little more brusquely than he should, but he doesn’t have time for Dean’s lifestyle counseling, he needs to get back to his research. “Just last month, it was you who was playing Mr. Solitary Man.”

“That’s different.”

“Different how?” Because the way Sam sees it, it’s the same thing – the goddamn Mark messing up their lives any way it can.

As if sensing that he can’t really win this one, Dean just sighs and throws his hands up. “Fine, suit yourself. I’m going out.”

“Fine,” Sam replies, immersed in the ancient Babylonian texts again. He already went through them twice, but he can’t take the chance of missing something just because he wasn’t thorough enough. Dean’s life depends on it.

=

Dean comes back sooner than Sam expected, and he isn’t even remotely drunk, doesn’t look like he’d gotten into a fight, doesn’t reek of sex. It’s suspicious.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Out.”

And that’s that.

=

“Dude, I’m serious. You need some fresh air.”

Sam takes his time looking up from the laptop. “Why?”

“A week, Sam. A week since you last left the bunker.” Dean looks worried, which is kinda nice, but there are bigger things to worry about, so…

“You found us a case?”

“No, but – “

“Then I’m staying here.” Sam effectively ends the conversation by turning his attention back to the article on ancient curses. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean’s hands clenching into frustrated fists – and Sam’s not bracing himself for a blow, he’s  _not_  – but in the end Dean just huffs out an exasperated breath and stomps away.

Again, he returns bearing no signs of his usual leisure activities. It’s  _highly_  suspicious.

=

The next day, Dean does find them a case, and since Sam can’t come up with an excuse not to go, they head out to Kentucky. Sam devotes most of the trip to staring at his laptop screen; he’s recently discovered several European databases of digitalized medieval manuscripts and there’s a lot to sift through that might be related to the Mark.

The case itself is a fairly simple salt and burn, and after the ghost’s bones turn to ashes, they catch a few hours of shut-eye in the nearest motel and in the morning, they’re on their way back to Kansas.

Sam keeps shifting uncomfortably in his seat, squinting against the bright light in his eyes and sweating in his jacket while trying to navigate his way through a confusing Hungarian database that doesn’t have a single word in English. It’s by no means an easy task, and once Sam gets the Mark off Dean's arm, he's definitely going to send a complaint to the administrator of the site. Well, after he gets some decent sleep.

“Alright, that’s it,” Dean’s voice breaks Sam’s concentration as the Impala swerves off the back road they’re on and pulls to a stop. “Turn that thing off and get out.”

Dean’s using his authoritative older sibling/parent tone, and nearly three decades of obeying that tone do their work, so Sam steps out of the car, looking for potential danger or anything else that might’ve been the cause of Dean’s order. When he finds nothing, he turns back to Dean to demand some answers.

But Dean’s not listening. In fact, he’s not paying attention to Sam at all. He’s sitting on the front of the Impala, both hands flat on the hood, head tilted up towards the sun and eyes closed, a small smile playing on his lips. Sam’s just about to ask what the hell is going on when it suddenly clicks, the puzzle pieces falling together. Squinting against the bright light. Sweating in his jacket. Dean’s comments about fresh air and now his sunwards turned face.

Somehow, without Sam noticing it, in the past week spring came.

“Huh.” Sam shrugs off his jacket, throws it on the backseat and joins Dean on the Impala’s hood. Dean’s still doing his best impression of a big cat basking in the sunlight, eyes closed, so Sam seizes the opportunity to study his brother: the perpetual stubble, the deepening lines around his eyes and mouth, the first flecks of grey hair at his temples and the fresh bruise on his chin from where the ghost threw him into a tombstone last night. Life hasn't been kind to him. And yet, he seems almost content, at peace.

“Quit staring at me,” Dean mutters.

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.” When Sam doesn’t deny it again, Dean peers at him curiously. “What, do I have something on my face?”

Habit kicks in. “Yeah, your face. It’s awful.”

“Awful good-looking, you mean. It’s a thing of beauty and you love it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You shut up.”

The air is crisp, but the Impala’s hood is warm and the sunrays even warmer, and Sam wriggles a bit to find the most comfortable position, his shoulder bumping against Dean’s as he does so. He’s missed this, he realizes suddenly, this feeling of actually sharing a moment with his brother, not just sharing space. They haven’t done that in a while.

“Pretty awesome, isn’t it?” Dean sounds terribly pleased with himself, and Sam should keep his eyes straight ahead so he doesn’t have to see his brother’s victorious glee, but he’s missed Dean acting like this and so he looks, and sure, there it is, Dean grinning all smug and happy, and Sam can’t help grinning back.

After ten, maybe fifteen minutes, Dean stands up. “Let’s go take a walk.” Not waiting for Sam’s reply, he heads off across the bright green grass towards a small group of trees in the distance. Sam stares at Dean’s receding figure, dumbfounded. Dean has  _never_  been one for hiking or even going for walks – and no, a ‘romantic walk’ with an ulterior motive totally doesn’t count.

“Come on, Sammy!” Dean hollers over his shoulder, so Sam puts his long legs to use, catching up with him quickly. They fall into step easily, walking side by side at a brisk pace until they reach a small creek that meanders through the meadows. There they stop and stand still on the low bank and watch the clear water flow by, birds chirping merrily around them. The river birches lining the stream are just starting to bud, and the ground is peppered with tiny blue flowers, so many of them that it looks like Lady Spring threw a party here, got plastered and went a little crazy with blue confetti. Considering everything they’ve seen so far, Sam can’t be entirely sure that’s not the case.

“Funny how Dad made sure that we know all the flowers and herbs used for magic and rituals,” Dean says, staring at the flowers like they’re a puzzle to be solved. “But I have no idea what these are called.”

Sam gets down on his haunches to inspect them more closely. They’re four-parted, the petals pale blue, the center yellow. He doesn’t know what they’re called either. “I could look it up,” he suggests as he stands up, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Nah, it doesn’t really matter.”

So Sam puts the phone away, jams his hands down his pockets and tries to look anywhere but at his brother, who starts walking around and doing all sorts of weird and uncharacteristic things, like bending down to pluck one of the flowers and actually _smelling_ it, dipping his fingers into the stream’s water and watching the wrinkles on the surface, or touching the trunk of the nearest birch, running his palm over the coarse bark.

Sam would only be lying to himself if he claimed he didn’t know what this was about – Dean saying goodbye to life, taking time to appreciate the things he’s taken for granted and the things he’s never even had the chance to explore. Girls and bars and beers and steaks, but also new canvas jackets, that stupid catchy Taylor Swift song and now apparently also mother nature. Essentially, it’s the year before Dean’s deal came due all over again, with one vital difference – Sam is going to save Dean this time.

“Hey, Dean…” He begins hesitantly; he doesn’t exactly know where he stands with Dean these days, the nature of their conversations somehow different from what it used to be.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you have this new-found appreciation for the mundane, but you don’t have to act like your time’s running out. We’re gonna find a cure, we're gonna figure this out.”

Dean interrupts him then, and honestly, Sam’s surprised he even got this far. “Save the motivational speech, Sammy. I heard you the first hundred times.”  _Heard you_ , not  _believe you_.  “Just… just don’t, okay?”

“But – “

“Sam, no.” Dean’s tone indicates that the discussion is over, and if Sam keeps pushing on, Dean will only shut him out completely. If he hasn’t decided to do it already.

“Okay, sorry,” Sam raises his hands in apology, a peace offering. “Shutting up now.”

Nodding curtly, Dean pushes himself off the tree he was leaning against. “C’mon, let’s get back to the car.”

As he follows his brother across the field, Sam is inwardly cursing himself for ruining the moment. He suspects the atmosphere between them is going to get tense now, stifling and polluted. But Dean turns to give Sam one of those rare, brilliant smiles that shine a thousand times stronger than the sun above their heads, and claps Sam on the shoulder. “Stop sulking, I’ll buy you ice cream.” It looks like he's determined not to let anything spoil their fun, which is something he used to do a lot when they were young, making mold stains on motel ceilings into maps of fictional words and all that.

Sam's missed that, too.

Dean makes good on his promise, finding the nearest town, pulling over to charm two local girls into recommending him the best place for ice cream, and buying two biggest, fanciest sundaes for himself and Sam. They settle around a ridiculously small round table on the terrace, dig into the ice cream and watch people stroll by. The sun’s still shining bright, it seems like everybody’s in a great mood, and Dean’s got his private, eye-crinkled smile on, the one that means he’s genuinely happy and not just putting on a show for the sake of others. That, to Sam, is one of the best sights in the entire world.

He doesn’t want to lose that. He can’t lose that.

A direct approach has proved to be ineffective, so he tries a different tactic. “I’ve almost forgotten how beautiful spring can be,” he says, and he’s not lying. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Dean’s knee bumps against him underneath the table. “Sure, Sammy.”

“But, you know, summer is pretty awesome, too. Girls in mini-skirts, drinking beer under the stars, parking by a lake and going for a swim… Autumn isn’t half bad either. You get pumpkin pie, a new season of _Dr. Sexy_ …”

Dean has stopped eating, and his narrowed eyes tell Sam that again he knows perfectly well what Sam is trying to achieve here, but he doesn’t halt him this time, listening with a sort of a wistful smile as Sam stumbles through his – frankly pretty pitiful – attempts at poetic description of the color of autumn leaves. It’s the only encouragement Sam needs.

“And then there’s winter,” he says, mind spinning fast as he’s searching for enticements that Dean would find interesting. “When’s the last time we’ve built a snowman?”

Dean perks up at that, sitting up straighter, waving his spoon at Sam, drops of ice cream flying everywhere. “Remember that time we built a huge snow dick on the front yard of that douche teacher who kept picking on you because you were smarter than him? Man, that was awesome.” His grin, the light shining in his eyes, instantly takes ten years off his face.

“Yeah, it was. And that’s not all there is to winter. There’s snowball fights. Christmas. Skiing down a slope so fast the wind’s whistling in your ears.”

“I’ve never done that,” Dean admits, quiet, almost ashamed.

Oh, right. Of course not. John had taught them cross country skiing and snowshoeing, both useful for a hunter, but downhill skiing? That was for civilians, a recreational activity, it was for  _fun_ , and therefore completely useless in John Winchester’s book.

This would be a perfect moment for a snide remark aimed at the way their father raised them, but frankly Sam’s long grown out of such pettiness, so instead he tells Dean about his first Christmas with Jess – how Sam spent most of the winter break embarrassing the hell out of himself while learning to ski, how Jess laughed so hard at his attempts that she faceplanted into the snow, how proud she looked once Sam finally got the hang of it. How she pouted and narrowed her eyes in only partly faked anger when it turned out had Sam become a better skier than her before the holidays were over.

“I could teach you, you know,” Sam offers when he comes back to the present, to Dean. “I think I’d be a good teacher.” He’s not really sure about that, there’s not many things that he got to teach Dean since it’s usually been the other way around, but he would love to try.

“I bet I’d be great at skiing,” Dean says confidently. “I’d learn it so fast I’d be teaching  _you_  in no time.”

“No way.”

“ _Yeah_ way.”

And suddenly they’re arguing about their athletic skills, and Dean’s already promising to kick Sam’s ass at this whole skiing thing, and it’s all fun and brotherly banter like when they were young, the rhythm of it familiar and so easy to fall back into. They’re Winchesters, so they’re both fighting dirty, using anything they can to gain the upper hand. Of course, eventually Dean brings up Sam’s sprained elbow, because apparently that one will never stop being funny to him. Which is unfair and totally calls for revenge.

Thankfully Sam still has some ammo left, and he’s not afraid to shoot. “Hey, Dean, remember that time you fell off a tree and broke your ankle because you were too busy showing off in front of the cheerleaders to pay attention?”

Dean curses, makes a grimace. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

“Yep.” Sam’s trying to keep a straight face, he’s just not trying particularly hard. The memory of Dean, sixteen years old and cool as hell in his torn jeans and beat-up leather jacket, letting out a decidedly un-manly squeal as his boot slipped on the branch of that tree… “God, I wish I'd had a camera back then. That video would be priceless.”

Despite his attempts to look offended, Dean’s fighting laughter too. It's probably the only battle Sam is happy to see him lose. 

=

When they return to the bunker, Dean forces Sam to go take a nap while he fixes them something for dinner. In return, Sam insists on washing the dishes, and when he’s done, he retires to his room with his laptop and researches the Mark of Cain on the internet again, reading until his eyes burn and he’s barely awake, his overworked brain using the last few working cells to tell Sam it’s time to go to bed. He always goes to sleep exhausted these days, the burden of being the only one still fighting too heavy, pulling him down like a lead weight tied to his neck.

He's not sure he has the strength to carry himself _and_ Dean for much longer. But he can't think like that.

He takes a quick shower, which wakes him up enough that he’s not afraid of falling asleep on his feet, and on his way back he stops by Dean’s room like he always does these days to check on his brother. There’s no response when he knocks, so he silently opens the door to peek inside. The light’s still on but Dean’s asleep, headphones on his ears and his laptop lying on the bed next to him. Sam steps closer, curious.

And there, on the screen, is page 4 of Dean’s YouTube search for instructional ski videos.

So maybe Sam’s not the only one fighting this fight after all.


End file.
